


lansquenet

by mazily



Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Versailles, 1777.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lansquenet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Custodian (custodian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/gifts).



> Thanks to Beta X. You know who you are.

"Adam," Eve said.

Adam sighed. Behind him, the city burned. "What?"

*

Later, when she thinks about that time, Eve smells powder, pomatum, perfume. Blood.

*

"Are you sure you're quite well?" she asked.

Adam grinned. Mouth crooked in that smug way of his; Eve wanted nothing more than to lick at the corner of his smile. To kiss until they shivered and starved and the rest of Versailles melted away into powder and gold. She swayed forward. Back. Steadied herself. Adam finished stitching the cloth wrapped around her breasts. Eve inhaled. Exhaled. Nodded.

"Arms," Adam said. She lifted her arms. Shirt dropped down over her head, fabric worn enough that she could watch Adam through the weaving. His skin was grey, damp with sweat, but he looked better that he had the night before. After a few hours of sleep. "I'll be fine once I find some good blood," he said. Translation: he'd been up all night with the musicians, and his peculiar morality had prevailed over common sense.

"Stay away from de Lamballe and the other princesses of the blood," Eve said. "The lot of them have been coughing for weeks."

"Ah," Adam said.

"Ah?" Eve mimicked. She crossed her arms. Adam stared back at her. "Oh, de Lamballe, darling, really?" Eve asked. Adam blinked, almost startled. Eve fought the urge to roll her eyes: Adam was, is, will never be anything but predictable in some things. 

"Fuck off," Adam said.

Eve circled him. Wearing only her shirt--her stockings draped over Adam's arm; breeches and coats still hanging--she stalked him. "Of course, de Besenval has been wearing a higher cravat than he typically prefers," she said. "On of those two, that's my guess. Or else you've been culling off the market women as they leave each night, hiding their bodies out in the woods."

Adam smiled. Shrugged and took one of the stockings between his fingers. Eve halted. Looked Adam in the eye. Caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers, letting the nails press hard enough to scratch. He knelt. She pulled back her hand. Lifted her right foot so he could slip the stocking over her toes. 

"Drawers or not?" Adam asked.

He slid the stocking up Eve's leg. Fingers careful with the fabric, less so with the skin of her inner thigh. He liked to press his fingernails against her skin. Were she still human, her legs would have been speckled with shallow cuts and bruises the precise shape of his fingers.

"Not today," Eve said. She lifted her other foot, and Adam moved his hands to that leg. The fabric was colder than her skin. An anomaly even there--something colder than her, than them--where everyone complained of the chill. Adam rolled the stocking up her leg. Followed with the garters--one for each leg. She stood there, shirt and stockings and nothing else, while he looked up at her from his knees.

"I don't want to share you with them," he said. "I hate it. I hate all of them."

Eve ran her fingers from Adam's hairline to the nape of his neck: back and forth, back and forth, repetitive and calming. Leaned over. Kissed the top of his head. "I know, darling," she said. "I know you do."

"Fucking zombies," he said.

"I love you too," Eve said. Another kiss--a strand of hair stuck to her mouth, solid and real--and she pulled back. "Now finish dressing me."

*

The story began like this:

Eve was a Russian count. Adam the musician she was sponsoring. Both of them suffered from one of those dreadful blood diseases no one dared speak about, or, rather, no one dared speak about with the person afflicted. Gossip was another matter: rampant, a beloved institution. Eve shuddered to imagine what Versailles would do with telephones or the internet. 

The Queen won--a roll of the dice, her smile bright like the gold of her mask. Eve laughed. Deep and long. The Queen held out her hand. Die showing two. "The King has retired for the night," she said. "Would you do me the honor, cousin?"

Eve blew. 

The Queen won again. Pulled her chips to her like the spoiled child she was (later, alone in their rooms, Adam would whisper, "I want more." Breath cold against her breast). The musicians tuned their instruments in a corner. The violinist's wig was askew, a spot of rouge behind his ear.

He looked delicious. They all did: the entire court was a jewel encrusted feast. Eve closed her eyes. Swallowed. Adam lurked in the darkest corner, always conscious of an escape route, watching her. Brooding. He wanted to bring his music to Versailles; wanted to share the crescendos and arpeggios with the King and Queen and watch them dance until their shoes turned red. 

"Come," the Queen said. The Duchesse de Polignac had taken her spot at the table. Losing chips even faster than the Queen had won them: one sou, then twenty, a hundred. "The music is about to begin again."

"They speak of your majesty's skill and grace everywhere from London to St. Petersburg," Eve said. "I hope to experience the joy of watching you dance just once before I return home."

The Queen blushed prettily: head tilted, the blood beneath her cheeks warm and sweet. Eve grinned. Waiting for the Queen to ask her to dance. She saw the next month spooling out in front of her: cards, a dance, a night in the Petit Trianon, the Queen's blood slightly vapid in the way of all royalty. (And later: the fear, the exodus, the death. Eve will hear the news in Athens. _But learn that to die is a debt we must all pay._ )

The Queen glanced back at the tables, fingers twitching to pick up a card. The musicians signaled that they were ready to begin.

"Will you do me the honor, cousin?" the Queen asked. It was not a question. Eve held out her gloved hand, and they walked out onto the dance floor. The music started. The Queen truly was a wonderful dancer. Perfect comportment. An innate feel for the music. Lovely.

The whispers never rose above the violins. Eve heard every last one. 

*

Adam waited for her in their chambers. Still easily jealous, then, still stupidly afraid that she would abandon him again for the splendors of China. "I did invite you," Eve said. "But you wanted nothing to do with the travel. You had your music. after all."

"I was composing," Adam said. He paced in front of her. Coiled energy. Frenetic motion. Eve remembered Tesla coils and electric lamps; remembered sparks and water turning to fire, the southern continents burning. She shook her head clear. "Composing, and I couldn't just stop because you and Kit decided to celebrate the Year of the Rooster in Shanghai."

Eve stepped in front of him. Took his hands in hers, and began to peel his gloves from his fingers. Kissed one palm. The other. Adam closed his eyes, and he shivered all over like one of the palace cats that always seemed to be underfoot. Eve pressed herself closer, and wrapped her arms around his back. Kissing every inch of skin she could reach: his cheeks, forehead, ears, neck.

"Eve," Adam said.

"Husband mine," Eve said.

Adam turned his head and kissed her back. Mouth open, pressed against hers. "Eve," he said. 

"I always come back," she said. Lips still touching. "Every time."

"It's this place," Adam said. "Everyone here is fool's gold , an illusion of riches."

" _There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,_ " Eve said. Adam pressed his body against hers. Tried to melt his body into hers. He slipped a finger beneath the cuff of her shirt, skin to pulse point to skin. An illusion of fragility. 

"No," Adam said. "Not fool's gold. Worse. Iron pyrite can at least be useful--the zombies use it as a source of ignition in their muskets. What good are these false kings and queens?" 

Eve nipped at his bottom lip. "Shh," she said. She pulled his shirt from his breeches, and he ducked through the collar. He reached down to undress himself the rest of the way. Eve moved to do the same, dropping her clothes to the floor as she crossed the room. Crawled onto the bed. 

Their rooms were private. Miraculously so---Adam made the normal crowds of Versailles uneasy, and of course there was their illness. Adam bent to pick up Eve's breeches. "Leave them," she said. She pointed her toes. Flexed. Adam put her breeches on a table and ignored the rest. 

"The Queen's brother is planning a visit," Adam said. He sat down on his side of the bed. Rolled onto his side.

"They're all doomed," Eve said. The drapes were closed tight against the rising sun. Heavy tapestries from a long dead king. From a long dead land. She lifted her head. Turned her body to face Adam's; they echoed each other like parentheses across the bed. "They'll be dead within the century--king, queen, unborn princelings orphaned. The country is ready to burn."

Adam reached across the pillows. Eve pressed her palm to his. Twined their fingers. "Have you eaten?" she asked. His hand was clammy. Skin jaundiced.

Adam nodded. Smiling. Jaw clenched. "Yes," he said. He spoke to a spot just to her left.

"Oh, darling," Eve said. She shifted closer to him and brushed his hair back from his forehead with her other hand. He pressed his head into her hand. Like a cat. A large, stupid, cat. "I wish you'd told me sooner. I could've brought you something, someone. That lovely girl who--"

"Nothing to be said," he said. Stupid self-suffering smile. "What is, is, after all."

Eve smacked the side of his head. "Idiot."

They slept. Skin to skin, clammy to cold. Eve dreamed--her sisters, fire, the world forever spinning.

*

There were grumblings in Paris. No one had enough to eat.

"I don't feel bad for them, exactly," Adam said, but he did. Always does. He watched the King eat his dinner like a fat old lion surrounded by crippled zebras. Unlimited food, free of charge, no effort required save lifting the fork to his mouth: disgusting. 

The violin quartet playing something of Adam's. Dogs barking. Always, always, dogs. Cats. That spitting monkey that always went for Eve's hair. "Oh, darling," Eve said. 

"Hush," he said. The King took another bite of beef. The violins crescendoed, subtly, and Eve felt it in her bones. 

They slipped out the back of the room. More inclined to hide in shadow than the rest of the court, and less fond of attention. No one noticed them leaving. No one remarked on Adam's hand at the small of Eve's back. "I'm to meet the Queen for cards again tonight," Eve said. 

"Again," Adam said. 

"It's a party," Eve said. Adam stopped--sudden. Eve almost stumbled at the loss of his presence at her back. "Everyone at court is invited. Including you, depressive loner tendencies and all. Join us, count cards and glower at the excesses."

She reached out, and he took the couple of steps necessary to join his hands in hers. "Eve," he said. 

"Adam," she said. Mocking, fingers entwining. 

"Just for a couple of hours," he said. "And then we leave."

Eve turned back around, twisting uncomfortably in order to maintain contact. "A couple of hours," she said, "And then we will go find someone delicious to eat and spend the rest of the night in bed. Does that plan agree with you?" 

A half-skip, a double-step, and he passed in front of her. Footsteps picking up speed. _Master, go on, and I will follow thee._ "Come on," he said. Impatient. Hungry. Eve walked faster. Two by two, they raced through the corridors of Versailles. 

*

The story ended like this:

The Queen lost, and lost big: money flowing through her fingers like blood through her veins. Eve was counting cards. Couldn't help but follow the numbers, patterns; the Queen was raised cheating at her mother's breast, but Eve was older. Knew maths the zombies forgot centuries earlier, maths they'd barely begin to untangle before the water began to burn.

Eve grinned. Someone--one of the lesser princes, not as blind as the rest of them--swallowed loudly enough that Eve heard it over the shuffling of the cards. He looked pale. Afraid. Eve smiled even wider, aiming it at him, and Adam chuckled. 

"Another hand," the Queen said. The banker put down his stake, and the Duchesse de Polignac met. Eve put down a losing card. Stepped back from the table. The Queen laughed. "Now the rest of us have a chance."

Eve bowed. "I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit ill," she said. "With your majesty's permission, I shall return to my rooms to recuperate."

"But, sir," the Queen said. "Surely you can--"

Eve let her knees buckle. Fell and let Adam catch her--he started to run before Eve so much as twitched.

A physician was called. The Queen stood to the side, biting her lower lip and bending a playing card between her fingers. Her cheeks looked flush under the slathering of rouge. It really was too bad, the future spooling out in front of her. _In all things the Lord has turned cruel to me and attacked me with the harshness of his hand._ In all things, she was to be blessed and then stripped of all blessings.

Adam walked her back to their rooms, the physician following behind. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. Never to be seen at Versailles again: "a voyage to Sweden in the night," Adam said, "a romantic tale of love thwarted and reborn." Another physician was hired. 

*

The Queen loved children. 

Eve led Adam out of their rooms and through the palace. Hand in hand, perfectly in step; Eve wore women's garb, a pouf and rouge and decolletage. Everyone they passed on their way looked at them and pretended not to. Voices suddenly grew louder, then sudden silence. The crowds parted in front of them. 

"Count Falkenstein arrives in the morning," Adam said.

The moon was a crescent, waxing. Eve stood in the shadow of the palace and studied it. 

"The Queen is still a virgin," she said. She blinked, and the moon seemed to shift a hairsbreadth to her right. "Her brother won't stand for that. There will be dauphins and dauphines running through the gardens in no time at all."

Adam made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "More zombies," he said. "Just what the world needs."

He pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against. A group of market women and men walked nearby, a flash of movement in the corner of Eve's eye. She narrowed her eyes. Her fangs started to come in. _O winged prey, and tribes of fierce wild beasts,_ two women walking arm in arm straggling behind the rest.

"You've never seen the Parthenon," Eve said. Her entire body tensed. One of the women was limping, and the space between them and the others widened. Someone turned, called back, but they laughed and waved the group ahead. Eve turned to Adam. He looked brilliant. Starving. They began to follow. Hidden in shadow.

"Only in paintings," Adam said.

They began to run.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: history in a mirror is closer than it may appear. What I know about Versailles and this era comes from: Antonia Fraser, Sofia Coppola, Benoît Jacquot, wikipedia, and the internet at large. Consider this the version of reality wherein Kit Marlowe wrote William Shakespeare's plays and adjust accordingly.
> 
> Quotes:  
>  _But learn that to die is a debt we must all pay._ -Euripedes  
>  _There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls._ -Shakespeare  
>  _Master, go on, and I will follow thee._ -Shakespeare  
>  _In all things the Lord has turned cruel to me and attacked me with the harshness of his hand._ -Eleanor of Aquitaine  
>  _O winged prey, and tribes of fierce wild beasts._ -Sophocles


End file.
